All the Right Notes
by frickangel
Summary: Sara is about to find out the unexpected results of mixing jazz and chemistry from Greg. [OneShot] SaraGreg


**Title: **All the Right Notes  
**Author:** frickangel — **frickangel(dot)livejournal(dot)com  
Summary:** is about to find out the unexpected results of mixing jazz and chemistry from Greg. (Oneshot) SaraGreg.  
**A/N: **Dedicated to the _talkCSI_ Sandle fans that inspired this fic. Guess I couldn't kill the Bunny after all.  
Heh…Dax.  
Right…I'm longwinded. So bite me.  
**Credit:** Thanks to Aidrianna for being my amazing beta. The hat's especially for you!  
**Warning: **Music theory lessons may be required. **-grins- **Years of piano and music lessons _do _come in handy.  
**Disclaimer: **Don't own, don't know and don't I wish.

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**SMOKY** air filled with the thick scent of cigars and vintage perfume, the flicker of candle light, a moody bartender polishing his already shiny and gleaming beer mugs, and the sepia tint of the black and white moment.

That was exactly how she had imagined the setting of any jazz bar would be like. Except in this time and age, they were in Technicolor.

"If it ain't the great and elusive Sara Sidle. Well I'll be damned!"

Sara grinned at the woman standing behind the bar, one hand on her hips while the other was casually leaned against the counter, staring at her with an amused smile on her face. "Elusive maybe, but great is definitely farfetched," Sara laughed and sat on one of the stools. "So, Dax, I'm finally here…which brings me to ask, why am I even here?"

"Ah, the great mysteries of life," Dax answered while folding her arms across her chest. "Why don't you grab a drink first? How 'bout a beer?"

Laughing, Sara shook her head and smiled at her friend, "I can't. I'm actually working tonight," she glanced at her watch and noted the needles indicating 8.15 p.m. "I told my boss that I'd be late tonight. If my cell goes it means I need to get my ass back into the lab."

"Well then, I'm greatly honoured that you'd play hooky to visit my humble establishment."

"This…" Sara casually waved at the jazz bar they were in, pointing out the rather large number of people seated at the tables, some drinking while others chatting. All were waiting for the empty stage to be filled with the night's entertainment, "Is anything but humble, Dax. Your placed is filled every night, it's one of the hottest jazz spots around to visit, and it holds its own classiness—being Vegas, that's saying a lot."

"I knew there was a reason why I have you as my friend," Dax smirked, "You say the nicest things to get a free drink from me, that's why."

"So get me a Coke already," the brunette shot back with a smirk.

"Just Coke?"

"Yes."

"And a couple of shots of J.D.?"

"Dax…" Sara's voice was laced with a warning tone.

"Right, one plain Coke on the rocks for the _exciting_ lady,"

Sara snorted and watched as her long time friend busied herself with work. Turning back at the crowd that was growing, she noticed that almost every chair was filled; each and everyone's faces were bathed in the warm glow of the candles that were positioned on the tables. Their voices blended well with each other's; deep and undistinguishable. It was as if the darken mood of the place had also affected their speech.

Up ahead, the empty stage was washed in soft blue lights. One baby grand piano stood there by its lonesome self and the black finish glowed from the luminescence, showing just how well polished the instrument was. There weren't any other musical pieces on the stage, indicating that this was a solo act—one that was obviously good if Dax had allowed the pianist a one-man-show.

"Now can you tell me why you've been constantly chasing me to visit you here?" Sara asked as the sandy-blonde returned with a glass of dark liquid. "And why only on Wednesday nights?"

"Because Wednesday nights are special. Why is it so hard for you to be here on Wednesdays? Come on, I've been trying wrangle you down here for the past month! You sure know how to make a girl call you every weekend. Is that how you get dates?"

Sniffing the drink just to make sure there really wasn't any alcohol in it, instead all she whiffed was the sweet carbonated beverage. The last thing Sara wanted was for Grissom to think she was back on the bottle again. "Firstly: I work nights. Secondly: I work nights, pulling triples on cases when it's called for, and that's what I've been _coincidently_ been forced to do every Wednesday for the past two weeks. Thirdly…" Sara sipped the soda and licked her lips to hide her pout, "Someone's already called dibs on Wednesday nights as an off day."

"I stand true. You _are _elusive, Sara."

She allowed that one remark to pass without a comeback, only because she was tired of it and that she was more interested in understanding what great mystery needed her attention here. "So, why are Wednesdays so special?"

Dax leaned in closer and rested her elbows on the counter. "Because of that."

Confused, Sara followed the direction Dax's finger was pointing at; gazing past the seated patrons and the walking ones, only to see the baby grand—still without an owner. At first, Sara figured she had mistaken what her friend was pointing at, but a confirming nod from her told Sara otherwise. "Okay, I give up, what's with the piano?"

"You scientists have no imagination," the other woman scoffed and narrowed her eyes. "Every Wednesday nights, there's this guy who plays the most amazing jazz and blues you've ever heard in L.V., baby."

Years of friendship and living through many of each other's mood swings, anything coming from Dax was always taken with a huge pinch of salt. "Of course," Sara cooed along with just too much mock enthusiasm. "And just how did you find such amazing talent?"

"That's the odd thing, I didn't," Dax shrugged. "It was more of he found me. Like fate bringing two unforeseen chances together in an ultim—"

Eyebrow arched—Sara left it at that.

She sighed, and rolled her eyes, "Came in one evening. Asked if he could have a slot. Made him audition for me. Blew my socks off. End of Cliffsnotes version."

"Interesting," Sara muttered without changing her expression.

"You might know him."

Now, that caught her attention, "I might?"

"Yeah, one night after his show—by the way the guy is absolutely cute. In a rather adorkable manner not so much hunky…but then he's like—"

"You do realise you're longwinded, right?" Sara interjected, this time both her eyebrows were raised.

"Is it just me or do all scientific braincases like you live on the brief version of things?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who clipped her name from Alexandria to Dax. Now who's taking the shortcuts?"

With her eyes narrowed into small slits, Dax pressed her lips into a thin line. "Bite me."

"Don't tempt," the CSI picked up her drink again to take another sip.

"My point is…" Dax started again, "Says he's working with—"

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Sara whirled behind in time to see the reason that had interrupted her conversation; a middle-aged fellow adjusting the mike as he spoke clearly into it. He lifted the mike stand and brought it along to the corner of the stage where he stood firmly, satisfied with his position. "Welcome to the _Redrum_ bar and also thank you for being here tonight," he continued. "I'm assuming you all aren't here just for my devilish good looks, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend you are," he grinned as the audience politely laughed, the murmurs of their tones drifted across the room.

"So. I'm Billy, not the star for tonight but here to introduce to you the actual person you're here to see," Smiling widely now, he brought his hands soundlessly together as he bent forward slightly and looked at the opposite side of the darken stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, fans of the great jazz and blues, here's the talented…"

Her hands were placed from palm to palm, waiting for the right moment to begin the greeting.

"Greg Sanders."

Jaw dropped, hands stuck in mid-clap, Sara's mind was frozen as her senses struggled to compute the meaning of it. It couldn't be her Greg Sanders, could it? The ex-lab rat cum field mouse with the most ridiculous taste in music and t-shirts?

No.

Could it?

Darkness revealed a rather tall man, dressed down in a blue pin-stripe shirt, a tie hung loosely around his unbuttoned collar; baggy jeans with deliberately torn patches in the dark—but faded—blue denim; a mess of dark brown curls highlighted with golden blond streaks that peaked playfully from under the fedora hat, completed with a pair of _Converse_ and a 'rock-on' attitude.

Oh god.

He walked to the baby grand and settled himself down. His foot tested the paddles and cracked a few of his knuckles before laying them on the soft white keys.

Oh. My. God.

He smiled.

It _was_ Greg.

-----

The fog-like feeling was still flooding her as Sara stood alone. The tender memories of the night beginning to sink into her mind as she recalled how she sat there by the counter in complete shock.

Numbed, Sara had been transfixed throughout the night, not by the fact that Greg was really the long-awaited musician but he was good.

Damn good.

His fingers had expertly soared across each key, hitting on the right notes, perfect to imperfect cadences; change of key from a major to a minor, a double flat and smoothly flowing back into a major scale. Even each thrill, staccato, and slur was executed with perfection, not by the technical points but rather how the music was echoed with every drop of emotion and passion.

Sara vaguely realised she had been smiling and often just staring at her colleague—her friend—as he delicately played every song; its deep and meaningful music hypnotising the room. Every time he hit a strong chord, Greg's whole body moved with the beat, his head dropping slightly and swaying again to the rhythm.

The crowd had cheered, whistled, and pushed for another song, and another, and another, until his time was up. There were no words exchanged from him to the audience, just the simple melodies of music were enough. Occasionally he flashed a lop-sided grin in between songs, listening to the crowds urge him to go on. When he was given the right push to continue, Sara saw with fascination as he closed his eyes, lifted his resting hands upon his lap to the piano. Slowly, the grin faded away to something else—something Sara couldn't quite figure out. Then there was a pause from the whole room, all waiting for the beginning and there was also a moment of silence from Greg as he remained still in his poise. The stage lights were still in blue, showering down from above and throwing an ethereal effect on him.

After more than an hour of straight and fluid jazz, Greg stood, bowed, and exited the stage accompanied by the undying cheers of the audience. Sara had at least half recovered from her shock enough to give him applause as well.

That was over an hour ago.

Patrons of the place had finally filed out; Dax and Billy were in the office discussing the finer points of their business while Sara remained in the semi-darkness of the vacant hall, eyes still focused on the empty and shadowy stage. Her glass was empty except for the ice melting away into pools of clear water, stained by the remnants of her Coke.

Patiently, she sat and waited.

Stage lights unexpectedly filled the platform, once again illuminating the piano and sparkling off its curves. Her wait had finally paid off.

Shifting slightly on her seat, she eyed the corners as for a second time he broke from the darkness and ambled towards the stool. As he sat, Sara got off hers and quietly she strolled to the side stairs and made certain her boots were soundless as she stepped up.

He pulled off his dark tie and slung it over the piano's rim where the case and lid met had it not been tipped up and slanted against the prop-stick. His hand reached for the hat and he gently discarded it on the floor while balancing a small goblet of wine. It amused her slightly to think the rookie CSI was into wine.

There was a tiny clink of glass as Greg placed the drink on the piano by the music desk. From where she was going up, Sara couldn't see if he was preparing to play but her guess was right when the simple sounds of the instrument filled the air.

It wasn't the complicated moves of the jazzy pieces he had been playing earlier on, but rather just simple chords set together.

At the top of the stage, Sara looked down into the hall and found it smaller than she had thought it was. "Didn't know you could play."

The music faltered and crudely ended on an awkward sound, causing Sara to cringe at the imperfection of it. The note lingered and slowly thinned out like smoke from a fat man's cigar, before he dared peep over the board and look.

He squinted through the curtain of lights while she remained still, trying to smile slightly.

"Sara?"

"Last I checked," she shrugged and threw her hands out slightly.

If that was the same look of shock on Greg's face that Sara had been wearing earlier on, then revenge was indeed sweet. Biting on her tongue, Sara held back her laughter or even a grin but merely looking nonchalantly at the younger man.

"What…I mean, err…why and how come—you're here and just, I…" he stuttered unintelligibly and ran his hands through his hair, "Oh…man."

A grin was definitely playing on her lips now, "Yeah, hi to you too," she waved playfully.

"Uh…hi," he blinked uncertainly, "What are you doing here?"

So the man's brain finally got over the shock, at least he was stringing words coherently now. It took Sara longer for her to overcome it. "Dax is an old friend of mine. You do the math."

"R-ight," Greg shook his head as he finally broke into a slight smile. "Should've known something like this would happen."

Taking a few steps closer, Sara couldn't be bothered if her boots made noise against the polished wooden floor now. Reaching the piano, she stretched out and felt the smooth gloss of the instrument, and placed her arms against it while staring at her partner. "Why? Was it a secret?"

He shrugged and pulled in a deep breath, "Were you here the whole time?"

A question to a question meant only one thing: he was avoiding the topic.

"Pretty much," she answered, deciding that she would leave her actual question for a later time. "Long enough to know that you're really good at this."

Sara could've sworn she saw him blush, but then again it was hard to tell with the blue lights discolouring the actual shades of anything beneath them. He smiled again and looked down before lifting his fingers and hitting a few random keys; the clear sound of each string vibrated and sliced through the still air. "Thanks," he muttered and ceased his playing.

"So, how long?"

His foot applied pressure against one of the three pedals, pressing it down and letting it free, and repeated the process again a couple more times. Looking up at her, he seemed to be wondering about something and he was trying to find the answer from Sara's face. All she offered was an eyebrow raised. Somehow, he seemed satisfied with that and shifted his position, shuffling closer to the edge and leaving enough space for another person.

Sara gazed at the empty spot and then at Greg. Was that an invitation?

Motioning at the rectangular stool, he answered her unspoken question.

She pulled off her burgundy scarf and tossed it by Greg's tie. Carefully, she sat herself on the stool, slightly worried just how much weight the musical furniture could withstand. Relieved that the thing didn't even release a squeak at her added load, Sara turned at Greg again—waiting.

"Since I was seven," he replied, eyes still focused on the black and white puzzle that lay before them. "My mother made me start the lessons and forced me down in front of the piano every week until I reached my fifth grade in music."

"What happened in fifth grade?" Sara asked, genuinely curious of the little mystery known as Greg Sanders.

"I discovered jazz," he chuckled, suddenly turning and she found herself overwhelmed by his soulful eyes.

"Oh," was all she could think up as she struggled to look away. "And then you decided to keep this a secret from all of us?" she finally found the power to close her eyes and look down at their feet.

Another shrug, "What, lab-rat Sanders who tunes into Marilyn Manson and Nightwish is an aspiring jazz pianist?" He laughed at himself while glancing up at the array of lights hanging above them.

Taking a moment to admire where they were, Sara thought of the multi coloured lights as stained glass from a monastery, a divine presence of some sort eyeing them. But then again, could she really regard stained glass as a divine thing? "We're in Las Vegas, Greg. Anything and everything about this place is eccentric," Sara said, "We've got Elvis and aliens conducting weddings and Marilyn Monroe's posing by the statue of liberty at the corner of the street. Nothing's odd anymore in this place."

He nodded, "True, but I prefer a little anonymity in my life sometimes."

Silence settled upon them again as they sat there side by side and at a complete loss for words.

"Play something," Sara asked, her sight darting away for fear of being pulled in by his eyes again.

"Like what?"

"Anything," she answered simply, "For me."

He sighed and rubbed his hands against his jeans, "All right, Sara Sidle…for you."

Barely blinking as once more, Greg created magic while he tinkled across the keyboard, throwing wave after wave of musical twists and turns as Sara found herself being pulled into his world. Watching him from afar was one thing, but now being just right next to him, witnessing how each finger firmly presses against the white then the black and a blur as they flew across from one octave to the second—it was different.

It was breathtaking.

Daring to look at him again, Sara discovered what the expression on his face was.

It was love. Love for the music and what he was doing.

Swallowing hard, she balled her hands in fists before opening them again and wiping the sweat off on her slacks. "How do you do that?" she whispered quietly as Greg ended his private performance with a soft note.

"Do what?" his brown eyes were almost hidden by his half-closed lids.

"Feel that much emotion from music."

Furrowing his brows, Greg pondered upon her words, rubbing the back of his neck as he did so. Throwing up his hands, he was left confused by it. "I honestly don't know."

She laughed and dipped her head slightly, agreeing wordlessly that that was indeed a stupid thing to ask. Was she expecting him to reply with some scientific babble?

Silly, Sara.

Still laughing at herself, Sara brought her own slender fingers to the keys and she hit a note and letting it stay there before stumbling to the next one. She stopped, listened to the tone dissipate and moved further up. By the fourth note, she amusingly found herself to have played a mini scale.

"You know what?"

She shot her head up and whirled around to look at him, "What?"

"Here," a small grin tugged at the side of his mouth as he lifted his hands to the keys again. Each strong finger was placed separately on one white or black piece; left and right hand spaced out slightly, indicating where the treble and the bass were played, "Put your hands on mine."

"What?" she repeated again, this time it was more of an astonished statement than an actual question.

"Come on," he gestured at his hands and urged her to come closer.

With much hesitation, Sara did the latter; slowly and very cautiously pressing her side closer to his yet she still wasn't sure how else to continue.

Sensing her bewilderment, Greg gently but firmly gripped Sara's left hand and placing it on top of his own then aligning his right side again on the keys. He waited for her to do the same with her right hand and she did.

"Ready?" he quizzed.

"For what?" Sara wondered aloud as she felt his strong muscles tense beneath hers.

He played a chord and Sara felt the strength he pushed into it, surprised by the sudden force flowing from his hands. She was afraid that her own body was interfering with his playing and therefore, she only and very reluctantly allowed her hands to stay loosely on his. She would've pulled away completely, but she was drawn to the feeling that she felt from the music and from the movements of his hands.

Closing her eyes like he was, Sara drowned in the music and imagined herself playing.

The sharps, flats, demi semi quavers to quavers, and triplets.

A change of key.

Softer, softer and softer and abrupt loudness.

Accented crochets and dotted crochets fuelled by the chromatic up-scale.

Quickened pace and faster it went until it fell into the deep suddenty of a single note.

_Pianississimo_.

_Fine_.

She breathed slowly, trying to calm her racing heart as if the music had brought her into this rollercoaster ride of emotions. Her cheeks were red and lips dry. Slowly, she opened her eyes and blinked away the assaulting light before it dawned upon her with such clarity. Turning her head, she watched him still revelling in his world of song.

Indeed she was drawn to the feeling that she felt from the music and from the movements of his hands.

In all actuality, she was drawn to him.

To Greg Sanders.

"Wow…" Sara managed to utter breathlessly, not taking her view off him.

He laughed and opened his eyes, turning to look at her—their faces only inches apart. "Welcome to my world."

"I can see what you mean now."

"Did that answer you question?"

She couldn't help it, but she was suddenly eyeing his lips. "Which question?" she absent-mindedly mumbled.

"About how I feel."

Was she imagining it or was he moving closer to her?

"And just how do you feel, Sanders?" Sara whispered; she couldn't care less if she had imagined it—she inched nearer herself.

"It depends on how you're feeling," he answered, his voice as low as hers now.

"Uh huh…"

Countless times had she told herself not to close her eyes when a moment like this came, but she never could listen to her own advice. Instead, Sara found herself enjoying the taste Greg's lips with eyes wide shut.

Whatever the world had to offer her in reality was nothing compared to what she was feeling now. No amount of blue jays singing or snow falling on creeks, nor the red-yellow spectrum of fall could ever come close to the euphoria she was experiencing.

Their hands came apart as Sara's fingers wrapped around Greg's soft brown curls and his hands cupped her face, only deepening their kiss.

She reluctantly released her hold on his curls as the need for air broke their intimacy apart.

He smiled.

She smiled.

With his hand still on her cheek, Sara felt his warmness caress her flushed skin. This time Sara was certain she wasn't imagining it as Greg removed the space between them and he gave her another soft touch of his lips. It was light and represented a sacred seal on their newfound feelings for each other.

Breaking apart, they allowed the silence to enfold them; only their breathing could be heard in the exaggerated vastness of the stage and blessed upon by the blue lights. Not knowing what to say to each other, they remained still.

"Sara?"

She bit back the urge to giggle at the mention of her name, "Yeah?" she studied the creases on the stool's leather before lifting her eyes to him.

The mischievous grin that spread across his face was one that even Puck himself would be proud of, "Your butt's vibrating."

Frowning, Sara pulled back away from him, forcing his hands to release her before she realised what he meant, "Dammit!" she swore under her breath as she swiftly dug her hands into her pocket to retrieve her cell phone. Thumbing the button, she felt a slight relief to see it was only a message and not a frantic call. Either way, it was still an urgent reminder that she was needed. Flipping through the menu, Sara deactivated the silent mode. "Grissom's calling me back."

"You're working tonight?" his disappointment was hard to miss.

"The only person not working on Wednesday nights are you, Greg," she playfully glared at him. Standing up, with one knee propped on the stool, she cast her eyes down on the pianist. "Gotta go."

Greg made a grunting noise in response. Pulling himself up, he towered over Sara slightly and planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. She smiled as she took in the scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh hint of wine from his lips.

'_So much for no alcohol_,' she mused, and grinned.

Without a word but only an unspoken understanding and with glances exchanged, the CSIs parted ways with Sara grabbing her scarf in one quick move and running down the stage. Wrapping the woollen piece around her neck, she approached the exit and swung open the door. A moment's hesitation brought her stepping backwards, just in time to see Greg drop himself back on the stool and ruffling his own hair with a goofy sort of smile plastered across his face. He then returned his attention to the piano—their only witness to the genesis of 'them'—and planted the beginnings of another magical piece into the air.

If she stayed another second, she was never going to leave.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his tie, a souvenir she had unwittingly procured by mistake. She could return it, but then again what's the rush?

The muffled message tone of her cell reminded her she needed to go. Now.

Closing the door behind her, Sara discovered something new tonight.

She really loved jazz.

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**-END-**

Thanks for reading.  
-Cheers  
Jo


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